


Two

by Tell_Me_Tales



Series: Dimension 297 [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: And He Knows It, Angst, Birth, Breastfeeding, Complete, F/M, Family, Father-Son Relationship, Filbrick isn't "Father of the Year" material, Fluff, Gen, Glass Shard Beach, Knuckles Sandwiches, Ma Pines' Inappropriate Humor, Mother-Son Relationship, Neighbors, Newborns, Pines Family circa 1950s, Pines Pawns, Polydactyly, Pre-Series, Questionable Medical Advice/Practices, Slice of Life, Twins, Wherein Filbrick is Human, but I still like to think that HE CARES about his family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-06-02 18:09:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6577048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tell_Me_Tales/pseuds/Tell_Me_Tales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a sweltering summer day in 1952. Spending it in a hospital waiting room with a bored nine-year-old was not ideal, but at least it was something he had been expecting. What came after the waiting was done? That was another matter.</p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <i>A stubborn tough New Jersey native, Filbrick wasn't too creative.<br/>Having twins was not his plan, so he just shrugged and named both Stan.</i>
  </p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not His Plan

**Glass Shard Beach, NJ** **  
** **June 01, 1952**

Filbrick Pines watches as his son Sherman flips through the same magazine for the fourth time. The nine-year-old's head is resting heavily against his fist and his eyes are half-lidded in boredom, but he isn't making a fuss and Filbrick is contemplating on what might be an appropriate reward for the (considering the circumstances) good behavior. And, perhaps, he is only _actually_ looking for a way to stave off his own boredom; the two of them have been trapped in this muggy hospital waiting room for hours, after all.

Sherman sighs loudly before tossing the magazine onto the low table in front of them. "I almos' wish I was at school, instead," the boy grouses, "At leas' the air conditioner works _there_." He then proceeds to make a show of pulling his sweat-dampened t-shirt away from his chest.

"Boy," Filbrick says, his tone warning enough that nothing further is needed.

"Sorry, Dad," the child immediately responds, "It's jus' so _hot_! ...and I'm bored."

Filbrick sighs and rubs at the bridge of his nose. He can't argue on either count. The pawnshop owner himself has not only discarded his suit jacket, but also rolled up his sleeves, loosened his tie, and even gone so far as to undo the first three buttons of his shirt. _'And still sweating like a pig,'_ he thinks despairingly. And, to top it off, there really is little to nothing to occupy themselves with in the room.

He stares down at Sherman long enough that the child starts to squirm under his gaze. "We'll stop for ice cream on our way home," Filbrick finally decides.

Sherman brightens immediately at the thought. "Really?" he asks, bouncing slightly in his chair.

"Hmm," Filbrick returns, the barest hint of a smile hidden beneath his mustache, "if you keep on your best manners while we wait to meet your brother."

"Yes, sir!" the boy chirps before he blinks and adds, "I thought Mom said I was getting a baby sister?"

The man shrugs. "Your mother says a lot of things."

"Yeah..." Sherman stretches the word out as he eyes his father carefully, "but normally you jus' agree with her."

A surprised snort of laughter escapes him before before he can stop it, followed by a chuckle. "Come here, you scamp." Sherman grins widely before abandoning his own chair for his father's knee. "Firstly," Filbrick begins after the boy is settled, "I 'normally just agree' with your mother because it's too much work to argue with her. And if you tell her I said that, you can kiss your allowance goodbye for a month." Sherman nods quickly, pressing a finger to his grinning lips. "And second... Your mother and I don't know if the baby will be a boy or girl, just that they're coming. We find out today."

"Oh..." the boy thinks for a second and then suggests, "Maybe I'll get both! A baby brother _and_ a baby sister!"

"Twins?" Filbrick manages as he tries to stifle further laughter, "Don't let your mother know you're wishing that on her, knucklehead. She wouldn't appreciate the thought of having to deliver two babies instead of one."

"Why?"

"Oh... Well..."

Both of the Pines males are distracted from their conversation when a new sound is added to the background noise: namely, a very loud, high-pitched crying.

"Mister Filbrick Pines?" a harried nurse inquires as she sticks her head through the doorway.

"That's me," Filbrick responds as he quickly rises from his seat and deposits Sherman in his place, "Did something happen?"

"I'm terribly sorry, Mister Pines," the nurse rushes to explain while entering the room properly, revealing the squalling newborn she's holding, "This isn't normal procedure, but it's Sunday and we're running on a skeleton crew and I really do need to be getting back to help the doctor with the rest of the delivery. Here, this is your son. Careful, now! Support his head. We just weren't expecting two!"

Before he has had time to truly process what is happening, the nurse has successfully transferred the crying babe into Filbrick's arms and is scurrying back the way she came.

_'Two?'_ he thinks faintly, _'We're not prepared for twins! Oh God, what if the nurse is wrong and there's_ more _than just two?'_

"Wow, he's really loud! Are all babies like this? Does this mean my baby sister is next?"

The words jolt Filbrick from his worries and back to the present. "Hmph. We'll see." The man finally tears his gaze away from the door the nurse had disappeared through and redirects it to the screaming bundle in his arms.

A grimace of disgust takes over his face. The boy is still covered in the gore of childbirth. _'They didn't even bother to clean him up before dragging him all through the hospital?'_ He teases a corner of the blanket free and uses it to wipe away some of the blood (and other fluids he doesn't want to think about) from his son's face.

With the loosening of the fabric, it isn't long before the wailing child works one of his arms free. "Hush now. You're safe," Filbrick mutters to the upset child while gently prying away the fingers clutching his shirt. He does his best to ignore the smeared handprint left behind. The shirt was already ruined, anyway. Probably.

Heedless of the piercing wails, Sherman edges closer to look at the baby. "Why's he so angry?"

"He's probably more scared than angry, Sherman. This is all new to him."

"Oh," Sherman gazes up at his father, "You should sing."

Filbrick blinks and then turns to look at the nine-year-old. "Excuse me?"

"You should sing," the boy repeats with a nod, "When I get scared, Mom sings, and then I feel better."

"Boy, I do _not_ sing." Sherman looks like he might try to press the idea so Filbrick adds, "Believe me, if you'd ever heard me attempt to do so, you'd be grateful for that fact."

Sherman frowns for a moment, and then, "If you don't sing... Should _I_ sing?"

Filbrick shrugs, bouncing his newborn son in his arms with the motion. "Not sure it'll help, but you can try."


	2. He Just Shrugged

The singing doesn't help.

_"~n Jacob Jingleheimer Schmi~"_

In fact, between Sherman's off-key renditions of various children's songs and the infant's continued wailing, Filbrick can feel a headache rapidly developing behind his left eye socket.

_"~is name is my name too! Whenev~"_

Desperate, Filbrick presses the back of one of his fingers to the screaming child's mouth. He is instantly rewarded as the cries cut off abruptly and a small mouth latches onto his hand. He can't hide his relief as the other source of grating noise falls silent as well. The ensuing quiet is downright _blissful_.

"How come ya didn' jus' do that earlier?"

 _'Don't be upset with the boy, Filbrick. He's still young,'_ he tries to reason with himself, _'And he's been good today. Don't go snapping at him.'_ The words still come out gruff, but Sherman doesn't seem to notice. "Because, sooner or later, he's going to realize that what he really wants isn't a baby-sized knuckle sandwich."

The nine-year-old's face scrunches up in confusion. "What do Mister Knuckles' sandwiches have ta do with the baby?"

Filbrick stares down at Sherman for a moment before he remembers the sandwich shop that had taken over the neighboring building last month. "I wasn't talking about those kinds of sandwiches. I --"

"There are other kinds a' sandwiches? Wait, does Mister Knuckles make baby-sized sandwiches?" Sherman rambles, "I thought babies had ta eat those weird mushed-up foods. Mom showed me the las' time we went shopping! Do ya think --"

He doesn't mean to frighten his son, but when the words come out, they're practically a growl, "Sherman, enough."

The boy jumps and looks up from the baby to face his father. "Sorry, Dad," Sherman says in a small voice.

Filbrick sighs. He should have handled that better. "It's alright, son," he reassures, "Just...be quiet for a few minutes." After receiving a hasty nod in response, the man tips his head back to rest against the wall behind him and closes his eyes.

Silence. Sweet, sweet silence.

"Hey, Dad?" Sherman says while tugging at his rolled up sleeve.

Filbrick groans. "Sherman. Didn't I ask --"

"How come my brother has so many fingers?"

"-- you to be --" the man cuts himself off when his son's question finally registers. "What are you talking about, boy?" He pulls his head away from the wall to look at the infant in his arms again. Two tiny hands are wrapped around his little finger, holding it in place as the newborn continues to determinately suck on the joint captured in his mouth.

"Look!" his eldest son insists, "He's got twelve fingers! One, two, three --"

And the pawnshop owner does look, counting off fingers far faster than Sherman is. There are six fingers, on each hand. _'At least they match,'_ some small part of him thinks.

"-- eleven, twelve. See!" Sherman's final exclamation cuts through Filbrick's thoughts.

"Yes, I see," Filbrick hears himself speak, still a bit too shocked to guard his mouth properly, "It's called polydactyly. It comes from your mother's side of the family." He forces himself to stop talking before the rest of his thoughts on the matter can make it to little ears.

His son's curiosity instantly comes back in full force. "Really? Why doesn't --"

"How about you save those questions for your mother," Filbrick suggests as patiently as he can, "Now, quiet."

Sherman meets his gaze sheepishly. "Yes, sir."

"Thank you," he says, but his attention is now almost entirely on the small bundle he's holding.

Twelve fingers. As if one child isn't enough hassle to work around, now there would be _twins_ to consider and strange hands on top of _that_. He hasn't planned for this. He and Maude certainly weren't _prepared_ for it. Some things can be split between two babies without it causing too much of an issue, but he can already see the extra necessities and bills stacking up. This is going to be a financial nightmare. Sherman might well have company in kissing allowances goodbye.

His spiraling thoughts are soon interrupted as the boy in his arms makes his displeasure over Filbrick's trickery known. Loudly. Filbrick grimaces at the sudden return of the infant's cries.

Sherman claps his hands over his ears and looks up at his father. "What do we do now?"

Filbrick offers another shrug. "Your mother is better at this sort of thing," he admits.

"Well, yeah," Sherman responds with all the wisdom given to him in his nine years, "She's _Mom_."

"Mister Pines?" The harried nurse from earlier is back and peering through the doorway at him. "We have your wife and remaining son settled in one of our recovery rooms. If you'll follow me?"

"Finally," he mutters under his breath as he rises from the plastic chair he's been sitting in for the past half-hour. "Come on, Sherman. Let's go see how your mother's doing."

"Does this mean I'm _not_ getting a sister?"

Filbrick glances down at the nine-year-old. "Doesn't look like it."

It's a quick trip down three long corridors, followed by a stuffy elevator ride and another two hallways, but they arrive soon enough. "Here we are," the nurse announces as she pushes open the door.

Sherman rushes into the room as soon as the gap between the door and the frame is wide enough for him to slip through. "Mom!"

"Mister Pines?" the nurse says, drawing his attention once more, "I apologize for earlier. If you'll hand your son over, I can get him cleaned up for you now."

"Hmph, probably best to get that done," he agrees before carefully placing the still screaming infant in her arms. "It shouldn't take too long, should it? His mother will want to see him."

"Not at all, Mister Pines. It'll only be a few minutes," the woman assures and then turns to stride further down the hall. Filbrick can hear her cooing to the babe as she walks away, "It's alright, little one. There's no need to cry."

Filbrick sighs and rubs at the left side of his head, pressing his fingers against his brow and the side of his nose. His headache has only grown in the past few minutes, but there isn't much that can be done about it for the time being.

Maude's voice greets him as soon as he enters the room, "There you are! I was beginning to wonder if you'd run off and left me to raise these rugrats all on my own."

Filbrick glances at the ceiling in exasperation. His wife's humor is an odd thing. "Very funny."

"I thought so," Maude shoots back, a tired smile pulling her lips up at the corners, "Come meet your son, Fil. I think he might even be almost as cute as this one was!"

Sherman attempts to dodge his mother's reaching hand, but fails to get away before she can pinch one of his cheeks. "Mom," the boy whines, "le' go!" Maude releases her hold only to ruffle his hair. " _Mom!_ "

"You wanna grow up too fast, kiddo," Maude tells him as he slips off of the bed where he had been sitting beside her. Sherman takes refuge in one of the two bedside chairs, outside of his mother's arm-reach.

Filbrick runs his fingertips lightly over his third son's small head, feeling the fine scattering of hairs decorating his scalp. "You should cover up," he mutters with a slight nod at their eldest.

Maude looks over at the pouting boy and scoffs. "He's nine. Besides, it ain't like me feeding his brothers is going to be an uncommon sight once we get home."

"Maude."

"Filbrick," she returns, though she has that _face_ on that says he's going to lose this argument, "I have spent the last ten hours --"

"It's been five," he corrects, not that he believes she'll listen to a word he has to say at the moment. And, indeed, she doesn't.

"-- popping out not _one_ , but _two_ of your little ankle biters, in a hospital that feels like a damn broiler during _the hottest day in a decade_ \--"

"The temperature was higher than this two days ago, woman!"

"-- all while in _excruciating pain_. I'm tired. I'm sweaty. And I ache in places I can't even openly complain about while our son is in the room."

The man grimaces. "I'd prefer not to be in the room for that, either."

"So, I know you aren't trying to convince me to put on more layers in this _AC forsaken hospital_ based on some kind of overdeveloped modesty hangup you have, when the only other person here to offend is _Shermie_. Now, tell me I'm right."

He sighs. Definitely too much work to argue with. Filbrick bends down and pressed a kiss to his wife's brow. "Yes, dear."

"Good." Maude relaxes back into the pillows piled on the bed, secure in her victory. "Now, where's our other son? I thought I heard him crying before you came in, but it doesn't look like he's with you."

"Nurse took him to get cleaned up. Should only be a few minutes."

The woman sighs loudly, "Ya know, at this point, I'm almost convinced they're keeping him away from me on purpose. I didn't even get to see him before they whisked him away, right outta the room."

"He has a strong set of lungs and Durante hands," he offers.

"Bah," Maude waves the information away impatiently, "So did Shermie. The docs will have him fixed up soon enough."

"I HAD TWELVE FINGERS?!" The loud exclamation instantly has both of his parents' attention.

"Boy, inside voice," Filbrick snaps as his headache throbs.

Maude frowns. "What? No, you -- Oh. Oh!" she looks back to her husband, "When you said he has the family hands, you meant he has _the family hands_!"

The pawnshop owner's brow furrows. "That's what I said, isn't it?"

"No, I just -- Huh. I don't think there's been a case with actual _fingers_ in the family since my great-many-times-over uncle, Bertie. They say he had _eight fingers_ on his right hand! Two extra pinkies, and an extra thumb to boot! A mean pianist, too! He was the richest man in the family, at the time!"

Filbrick crosses his arms over his broad chest. "Maude."

"No, really, Fil! I ain't lyin' this time!"

"Maude."

"Alright," the woman relents, "I exaggerated the number of fingers. It was only seven. No extra thumb."

"Maude."

"Okay, okay, it was really just six; but he _did_ play the piano! I swear he existed!"

Filbrick searches his wife's face carefully. Satisfied, he prompts, "'Richest man in the family'?"

Maude shrugs, looking down at the child in her arms. "Technically true," she says, "Pretty sure the family was poverty stricken during the period Uncle Bertie lived."

Filbrick sighs and shakes his head. "Right, so that's Great-however-many-times Uncle Bertie who had an extra little finger on his right hand and played piano." Maude nods. "If I call your mother and ask for a family history lesson, she going to tell me the same thing?"

Maude looks at her husband and tilts her chin up defiantly. "Yes."

"Alright then," the man says, shrugging his shoulders and leaning back.

" _Now_ can we go back ta the part where **I had extra fingers**?" Sherman interrupts loudly.

Filbrick's ready to tell the boy to pipe down and use a volume suitable for being inside before he bends him over his knee, but the look on his son's face stops him. Sherman's eyes are wide with a strange mixture of excitement and dread -- and perhaps even something that could be considered the more childish cousin of morbid fascination -- while he twists his hands at different angles in front of his face, as if doing so will enable him to find more fingers that he has never noticed before. "You had some extra skin and a couple of small, malformed bones on your right hand," he finally settles on telling the alarmed boy, "Nothing that could be considered a real finger."

"C'mere, sweetheart," Maude says, lifting an arm to welcome her distraught child back onto the bed with her. Sherman clambers onto the mattress and curls up against his mother's side without a second thought. "The docs cut that little bit of extra skin off without any problems a few weeks after you were born," she begins and then gently turns his hand over, "See? Nothing to show for it but a little scar on the side of your hand. You never even noticed it before, did you?"

Sherman examines the thin, pale line of skin on the outside of his hand. He glances up at his father, and, upon receiving an encouraging nod, turns his attention back to Maude. "So I _didn'_ have any extra fingers?"

"No, baby," his mother promises, "You're just as you should be. And look! Momma's got the same scars on both of her hands. See?" Maude allows Sherman to inspect her free hand. Assured that their eldest is now calmer and fully engrossed in his new discovery, Maude turns to her husband and quietly adds, "Kinda surprised, but this one just has the ten, no extras."

"Really?"

"Mhmm. Now, tell me about his brother."

Filbrick shrugs and states, "I didn't notice until Sherman pointed it out to me. They look like normal hands, except there's six fingers on each."

"Huh," an almost mischievous, if weary, smile takes over her face, "Think we should have him learn ta play piano?"

Filbrick sighs, lets his eyelids slip closed behind his glasses, and rubs at his left temple. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves, Maude."


	3. Named Both Stan

"That nurse should have been back by now," Filbrick grumbles, glaring at the door across the room from where he's seated.

Maude glances over at him but soon turns her attention back to her sons. Sherman is holding his (sleeping) little brother, and though he is normally a very well-behaved child, Maude is wary of leaving the two unwatched for longer than a few seconds at a time.

"You're sulking, Fil. It's not an attractive look on you," she informs the stewing man. When Filbrick's scowl only deepens in response, Maude continues to cajole her husband, "And didn't you just get done with telling me not to worry? You're not helping your case here, Cheesesteak."

"I --" he gets no further before the door swings open. In strides one of the hospital's doctors with the same nurse from earlier trailing fretfully in his wake and carrying the missing Pines twin, now asleep and mercifully quiet.

"Oh, there he is!" Maude cheers, her face brightening immediately, "Give him here! Give him here! You didn't let me see him earlier!"

"M-Misses Pines," the nurse says nervously as she walks toward the older woman, "I should w-warn y--"

Maude practically snatches the dozing infant from her arms, causing him to fuss, though not to wake. "Oh, look at you!" she cooes as she lifts one of his small hands, allowing the boy to instinctively clutch one of her own fingers in return, "Just like your daddy said! You're gonna be something special, kid. I've Seen it!"

The nurse glances back at the doctor in troubled confusion and the man clears his throat. "Doris, why don't you go retrieve the necessary paperwork for the Pines twins?" the doctor asks. His request is met by fierce nodding, the young woman practically fleeing the room. "Mister Pines?" the doctor addresses Filbrick next and gestures to the door, "If I might have a word with you?"

The pawnshop owner huffs but rises from his chair. "Don't drop your brother," he grumbles as he passes Sherman, gaining Maude's attention as well.

"I won't!" the nine-year-old chirps in response, if perhaps a hair too loudly. Filbrick stifles a grimace as he follows the doctor through the doorway.

"Mister Pines, my name is Doctor Marlow," he begins, "Your wife has expressed some...unusual desires regarding your children."

 _'What has she been up to this time?'_ Filbrick wonders even as he keeps an impassive expression on his face. "Such as?"

"She's been insistent on breastfeeding the children, though we've made it clear to her that the hospital offers a premium formula for infants."

"She did the same when we had Sherman. She's not going to change her mind now," Filbrick shrugs and then adds, "One less thing you people can bill me for later."

Doctor Marlow frowns. "Mister Pines, formula feeding offers several bene--"

"I run a pawnshop," the man cuts the other off, "You're not going to win an argument with me."

The doctor sighs and shakes his head, but doesn't try to push further. "Just a moment ago, your wife seemed to be quite...enthusiastic? Over your son's... _peculiar_ hands? I'm sure you noticed ear--"

"You mean the polydactyly."

"Well, yes," the doctor says, his voice reflecting his surprise.

Filbrick nods. "I'm aware of it. Runs in Maude's family."

"I see," Dr. Marlow replies with a grimace, "Shall I assume, then, that you and Misses Pines have no plans to have the boy's additional fingers removed?"

Filbrick freezes, all thought driven from his mind for a moment. "What?" he chokes out.

"Mister Pines?" the doctor asks in a cautious tone, "Are you alright?"

"What did you just say?"

Doctor Marlow clears his throat in unease but dutifully repeats his inquiry, "Are you planning to have the boy's additional fingers removed?"

"You can do that?" Filbrick demands, "You can make him _normal_?"

"Ahem, well, there are some risks inherent in such surgeries, of course; but, yes, it can be done," the doctor confirms, "You'll need to set up an appointment for a round of x-ray scans before the details of the surgery can be planned. I'd advise on having it done sometime after his fourth month and before his first birthday."

"You mentioned risks?" he asks, doubts beginning to whisper in the back of his mind.

A short pause. "I did a preliminary examination of your son's hands, Mister Pines," Doctor Marlow says, "and _all_ of his fingers appear to be fully developed and functional. Such a complete integration of the superfluous digits will make them difficult to remove without negatively affecting the surrounding tissue. Side-effects of the corrective surgery might include nerve and muscle damage, chronic pains, a loss of some dexterity in --"

Filbrick cuts the other man off, "You're saying this could cripple him?"

"Well... Yes," the doctor admits, "But without the surgery, he will doubtlessly face extreme societal --"

"No."

"Mister Pines, please be reasonable! I understand your fears, but it would be highly inadvisable to reject --"

"No," Filbrick repeats darkly, the word little more than a growl, "That's my final answer on the matter. You're not touching his damn hands."

Doctor Marlow stares at the father for a long moment before sighing and nodding his head in acceptance. "Very well, Mister Pines. I would still urge you to bring the child in for regular x-rays until he reaches adulthood. I might well have missed something with my preliminary examination of his hands; and it will be the easiest way to detect any complications that may otherwise develop undiscovered until they begin to cause your son harm."

Filbrick nods stiffly. "Was there anything else?" he demands.

"Nothing of great importance, Mister Pines," is the doctor's resigned response.

"Good," he huffs before turning his back on the man, effectively ending the conversation.

"So," Maude begins as soon as the door is closed behind him, "what did the doc want?"

"He had some concerns about how you're choosing to feed the boys," Filbrick answers gruffly. He tries to find a comfortable position in his newly reclaimed chair, but his bottled agitation makes it difficult. The man forces himself to stop fidgeting and settle in the seat, regardless of his discomfort. "I let him know his opinion wasn't wanted."

"And?" she prompts, "You wouldn't be this upset over something you were expecting to hear."

Filbrick hesitates. "Nothing worth discussing," he finally replies, relaxing into the chair as he realizes the truth of the statement. _'And, if something isn't worth discussing, it generally isn't worth thinking about, either.'_ He spares the proposal no more thought. Maude would have killed him if even one of those "side-effects" had ended up plaguing the boy after the surgery, anyway.

His wife eyes him shrewdly for a moment, but then a satisfied -- perhaps even _smug_ \-- grin covers her face. "Alright, then."

The nurse chooses that moment to re-enter the room with her hands full of papers attached to a clipboard. "Most of the paperwork for the eldest one is finished," she announces, seeming less flustered than she had been when she left, "There's still quite a bit left to do for his brother; but, for now, have you decided on their names?"

"Yes," Filbrick answers, straightening up in his chair. "The elder twin is Stanford Filbrick Pines."

The nurse mumbles under her breath as she records the name. Maude rolls her eyes and whispers to the nine-year-old beside her, "At least he's getting better at this whole naming babies business, Sherman Antonio Pines."

The boy wrinkles his nose and pouts. "Jack found out about my middle name last week. Everyone but Suzy is _still_ calling me 'Sappy.' I don't think they'll _ever_ stop teasing."

"And the younger twin?" the nurse prompts after flipping through her papers.

"Stanley Filbrick Pines."

To Maude's stupefied horror, the younger woman actually begins writing. "Wait! Stop!" she commands loudly in her panic. Too loudly, it seems, as everyone else in the room instantly reacts to the unexpected volume. The nurse jumps. Even Filbrick flinches. Sherman nearly falls off the bed, still holding his youngest brother. (To the boy's credit, he manages to tighten his hold and avoid dropping the baby.) Both of the twins wake and begin crying. "Oh, shi--" Maude flushes, "S-Sorry. Shermie, give me your brother."

The woman immediately gets to work on calming her children, but she still finds the time to glare at her husband. "Filbrick Pines," she says in a sickeningly sweet voice, attempting not to scare the twins any more than they already are thanks to her outburst, "You are not going to give these boys identical names!"

Filbrick crosses his arms. "Stanford and Stanley are different names," he argues.

Maude rolls her eyes, well acquainted with her stubborn husband's peculiarities. "Fine," she relents, "You are not giving them such _similar_ names. I agreed to let you pick the names for our kids -- heaven help me -- and I even agreed to your insistence on family names, but don't you dare think I ever agreed to giving up veto power. You're just going to have to -- Wait. You!" She turns her accusatory gaze to the anxious nurse fidgeting in the center of the room. "I know you wrote _something_ down. How far did you get?"

"Oh! Um," the woman clears her throat nervously and looks down at the paperwork she's clutching like a lifeline, "S-T-A-N."

Maude groans. "Alright, fine. 'Stanley' it is, then. But he's getting his _own_ middle name." The mother soon returns her attention to the source of her ire. "Fil, you better start shaking the branches of the Pines family tree and hope something good falls out. And it better be _completely different_ from either of his brothers' names, or so help me..."

Put on the spot, Filbrick scowls and slouches back in his seat. He has a few of the most recent generations of the family tree memorised, but there have been more females than males born into the family, as of late; and, if Maude is this upset over the name situation between brothers, something tells him she won't be too impressed if they later find out he has a similarly named cousin. No, safer to use an older family name, one that hasn't been used in a while; provided that he can remember any of them.

He frowns deeper as he pushes himself to recall information he never thought he would need. Nothing. He can't think of a single name that Maude would accept. Time to try another tactic, then. Maybe something from the Mikra? But there was no guarantee that whatever name he chose had ever been used in the _family_ , if he just picked one randomly... On the other hand, if you went back far enough, all Jews could claim certain individuals in the Torah as direct ancestors, couldn't they?

"Jacob," he says as soon as he can remember an English equivalent for any of the names he is more familiar with in Hebrew, "Does that work for you, Maude?"

"Hmm," she rolls the name around in her head for a while before trying it out loud, "Stanley Jacob Pines, huh? ...That'll do." The nurse gives a relieved sigh and quickly jots the name across the form. "Just for the record, Filbrick, even _I_ know where you pulled that one from. It's a good name, though. I like it."

"Glad to know you still think I can do something right," the man grumbles.

"Oh, don't be like that, Cheesesteak," Maude says, "Pretty sure you had me convinced you were doing something _very_ right, roughly nine months ago!"

"Maude!"

The woman cackles at her husband's scandalized expression. (The nurse once again flees the room, her face gone completely crimson.)

"I don't get it," Sherman says over the twins' renewed crying, "What's the joke?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TFW You realize you've gone from merely accepting a pairing as canon, to actually shipping them. 0.0;
> 
> TFW Canon pair or not, you are the _only one_ who ships them. OTL
> 
> I may need to write a "Filadelphia Cheesesteak" one-shot (set in 1942, probably) at some point, just to explain that pun-awful nickname Ma has for Filbrick. Would anyone even be interested in reading that?
> 
> ~~Send help! I've gotten in too deep!~~


	4. New Jersey Native

It's approaching five in the afternoon when Filbrick makes a run for lunch. (Maude had insisted it was still 'lunch,' even though he had argued that it was closer to supper-time.) He takes the opportunity to go home and change out of his ruined shirt, absently hanging it over a bedpost to be dealt with later. It's at that moment he finally realizes that he left his jacket folded over a chair in the hospital's waiting room.

"Damn it!" Filbrick barks in frustration, hitting a nearby wall with the side of his fist. _'Can't keep one damn thing on track today. Whole plan's gone to hell in a handbasket.'_ The man sits on his bed, removes his glasses, and scrubs at his face with both hands. "Shit."

_'Calm down, Pines. It's twins, not armageddon. Rearrange a few things. Sell some crap. Adjust your plans. Things will start running smoothly again, given time. Hell, summer's just around the corner! There will be plenty of tourist to convince they should buy all kinds of crap they don't actually need!'_

Filbrick takes a deep breath, releases it, and then freezes as one last unexpected thought hits him. "I'm going to have to sell my television, aren't I?" he groans to the empty room. It's a nicer set, too, with a large screen and color capabilities. He'd bought the thing just two months ago after he'd met his financial saving goals for the new baby; goals that have now been stretched and grown larger with the arrival of his brother right on his heels. He won't get all of his money back, of course, but _someone_ will jump at the chance to purchase the set for a few bucks cheaper than the local stores' prices. And the sale would be a good chunk of change he could put toward making sure his family stayed comfortable. The man sighs, "Can't be helped. It isn't needed."

Filbrick forces himself to get up and put on a fresh shirt. He has a hungry son (and wife, seeing as Maude had been quick to turn her nose up at the hospital's fare) waiting on him; he can't spend all day behaving like a little boy pouting over lost toys. He almost leaves the room without his sunglasses and has to doubleback to retrieve them from where he'd placed them on the bed.

The man takes a detour to the apartment's single bathroom and rummages through the medicine cabinet over the sink. Upon finding the bottle he was looking for, Filbrick twists open the lid, shakes one of the pills free from the container, and swallows the small capsule dry. He doubts the pain reliever will help much with the headache; but it's been persisting for hours now, and he's ready to accept whatever assistance the little pill can provide. Filbrick looks down at the bottle in his hand and thinks longingly of a very different bottle he has stashed in the next room over. The man shakes his head, returns the medicine to the cabinet, and then stares into the mirror. "Meds and booze are a bad combination, Pines," he reminds his reflection with a grumble.

Filbrick locks the entrance to the pawnshop behind him when he leaves. He then takes the five steps needed to reach the door of the neighboring building, rings the bell, and waits. He's about to try the doorbell again when Joseph Knuckles finally arrives and opens the door. "Filbrick," the man says, clearly baffled, "What are you doing here?"

"Maude sent me out to get lunch -- Unless you want to argue with her, it's 'lunch.' -- but the stores are all closed for Sunday."

"So you came here," Joseph finishes the thought, running a hand over his bald head before nodding, "Right, then. Come in." The man turns the lights on for the sandwich shop and makes his way behind the counter. "I hope you're alright with cold cuts. It's all I can have ready on short notice."

"Fine. I don't need anything fancy," Filbrick replies from where he's standing, "just something I can take back to the hospital with me."

"The hospital?" Joseph looks up from the contents of his large industrial refrigerator in concern, "Did something happen to Ma and the baby?"

"Maude's fine," he says with a shrug, "She went into labor this morning. Had twins, if you can believe that. Both boys."

"Twins! Congratulations, Filbrick!" the man says with a large smile, "I know Ma was hoping for a little girl this time, but I'm sure she's happy anyway." He hums merrily as he returns to pulling packages of meat, cheese, and several vegetables from the shelves.

"Hmph. I was expecting one. I don't know what I'm going to do with two." The admission stings his pride a bit, but he's vaguely hopeful that the older man can offer some worthwhile advice.

"Ah," Joseph dumps the armful of food over the counter between them, "You worry too much. From what Ma has told me, and from what I've seen myself, you're not a dumb man, Filbrick. Nor are you afraid of work. You'll figure it out."

"I could use something a little more specific than 'figure it out,'" Filbrick mutters with his arms crossed.

Joseph glances up at him and purses his lips oddly as he tilts his head in consideration. "One moment," he excuses himself and sets down the knife he'd been using. The man soon returns with another cutting board and knife. "Ma tells me you're quick to learn," he begins while clearing a space on the counter in front of Filbrick. Once the cutting board is set down, he holds the new knife by the flat of its blade and offers it to his neighbor. "Do you know how to cut tomatoes?"

Filbrick's first thought is to dismiss the inquiry, but he quickly realizes that doing so might offend the other man. Maude will be cross with him for weeks if he alienates another neighbor. Filbrick hesitantly accepts the knife and admits, "Maude handles all of the kitchen work."

Joseph tisks and places a tomato on the cutting board. "Every man should know how to make at least one meal on his own," he says firmly, "if only to keep himself from starving. Sandwiches are simple. Now, watch." The shop's owner reclaims the other knife and sets to work.

Joseph has to correct Filbrick on how he holds the knife a few times, but he catches on soon enough. Filbrick finds himself slipping into conversation with the sandwich maker more easily than he does with most people.

"My son -- Sherman," Filbrick corrects himself as he remembers that he now has _three_ sons, rather than just the one, "wanted to know if you make 'baby-sized' sandwiches."

"Ha!" Filbrick suppresses a wince at the loud laugh. "Baby-sized sandwiches? I suppose I can understand why he may have asked such a question today. Tell me, how has Shermie been with his brothers so far?" Joseph asks and pushes the tomato slices to the edge of his cutting board. He starts in on a cucumber next.

Filbrick watches the way other man's hands move for a moment before following his lead. "He seems fascinated by them," the man shrugs, "A bit overexcited."

Joseph snorts in amusement. "I'm sure the jealousy will set in given some time," he replies, "He's a good kid, but there's always that shock of the youngest realizing they aren't the center of attention anymore."

Filbrick frowns. "Always?"

"Mm," the man nods, reaching for an onion.

The pawnshop owner pauses when he discovers there is no second onion on the table. Filbrick puts the knife he's holding down. When Joseph doesn't say anything more, he prompts, "There anything I can do about that? The jealousy?"

"Well," the bald man draws the word out, cutting the sliced rings into halves, and then quarters, "Each child is different, but Shermie is the kind to be eager to please. He's also at that age where children are looking to prove how 'grown-up' they are. Giving him a few new responsibilities helping with the baby -- forgive me, the twins -- might head some of it off. Nothing too big; just enough to make the lad feel important."

"Hmm, that's not a bad idea."

"I need to go upstairs to get some bread," Joseph says, "I usually make it fresh in the mornings for the shop."

"I suppose I'll wait here, then."

The sound of one set of heavy footsteps go up the stairs to the second-floor apartment over the shop; the sound of _several_ lighter footsteps come down those same stairs barely a second later. Filbrick isn't surprised so much as he is confused to suddenly find himself being scrutinized by no less than four pairs of eyes.

"Hi," the eldest of the four says.

Filbrick can feel his eyebrows rising on his forehead and smooths his expression back to his normal, impassive mask. "Hello."

The teenager seems to take that as an invitation to come closer, though his younger siblings stay clustered near the bottom of the staircase. "What are you doing here, Mister Pines?"

 _'Like father, like son,'_ Filbrick can't help but think. "Lunch."

The boy's brows furrow. "But it's di--"

"Unless _you_ want to argue with my wife," he interrupts the youth, "it's 'lunch.'"

"Oh. Well, if Missus Pines say so," the boy replies with a grin and an exaggerated shrug, his hands held at shoulder height and palms facing the ceiling.

Filbrick frowns slightly. He doesn't _think_ the boy means for his response to be disrespectful. He decides to let it go; this time, at least. "What brought all of you down here?" Filbrick finally asks, nodding at the children still listening from their place at the foot of the stairs, "I'm not that interesting, am I?"

"That's just it. We don't know," the teenager says, "Missus Pines and Shermie are here all the time, but you _never_ are. And Mom said we weren't allowed to go next door and 'pester' you."

"I see." He doesn't really. Still, he may need to thank Mrs. Knuckles for keeping her brood from tearing apart his store and leaving sticky fingerprints on his display cases.

"My name's Frank," the teenager says, holding his hand out.

Filbrick remembers being dragged by Maude to the meet-and-greet-type grand opening his neighbors' had hosted a little over a month ago, when they had first moved in. He knows all six of his neighbors' children had been introduced to him at that time. He'd not been able to recall even one of their names before Frank decided to reintroduce himself. It's something of a relief that he hasn't been forced to ask.

"Filbrick Pines," he returns, taking the extended hand in a firm grip.

Filbrick isn't sure _why_ accepting Frank's handshake seems to fill the boy with delight, but the bright smile on his face makes it clear that he's pleased for some reason or another. He decides, not for the first time, that he is never going to understand children, and especially not teenagers.

"Why are you all down here bothering Mister Pines?" Joseph demands when he returns, a loaf of bread held securely in one arm, "If you have time for this, you have time to help your mother with dinner."

"Yes, Sir," comes the chorused response, all four children quickly retreating up the staircase. Frank comes back only a moment later to poke his head around the wall and add, "Goodbye, Mister Pines!" He disappears again before his father can become upset with him.

"They're normally better behaved," Joseph asserts with a shake of his head before he begins assembling the sandwiches, "but they've gotten to know the rest of the neighbors a bit by this point, and it's left them curious about you."

"Frank seemed...nice enough."

"Only Frank?" Joseph asks, though the grin he's wearing reassures Filbrick that he hasn't said anything that will come back to bite him. Not yet, anyway.

He shrugs, watching intently as different slices of food get layered on top of each other. "He was the only one that did any talking."

The sandwich maker chuckles. "That sounds right: send Frank in first. If the smart alec doesn't get his head bitten off, it's probably safe," Joseph says in a tone that's both amused and fond, "They're all good kids. They'll settle down once they figure out you're just a man like any other." He finishes the first sandwich and starts in on putting together the second. At the same time, he redirects the conversation back to their previous topic, "Now, about your twins. I know it's a bit early for this, but I have found that bunk beds are a fantastic way to save space in these cramped apartments. Or in general, for that matter."

Filbrick leaves the building ten minutes later with a brown paper bag full of sandwiches and the beginnings of a newly revised plan.


	5. Stubborn and Tough

Filbrick isn't surprised to see that two of the hospital's cribs have been moved into the room by the time he returns, wedged between his wife's borrowed bed and the corner. Never mind that even he can recognize that this likely goes against several hospital rules. Maude always gets her way in the end, after all, even over fretful nurses.

"Hi, Dad," Sherman greets quietly, and then adds, "Mom's sleepin'."

"I see that," Filbrick says as he throws his recently reclaimed suit jacket over the free chair. He opens the bag of sandwiches he's carrying and pulls out the top two. He sets them on the nearest nightstand and then passes the bag and its remaining contents over to his eldest son. "I asked Mister Knuckles about your 'baby-sized sandwiches.' Try not to make a mess."

Sherman blinks up at his father before peeking into the bag. Inside are nine small, carefully and individually wrapped, cut pieces of the remaining sandwich. Each piece has a diligent, hand-written label proclaiming them to be 'Shermie-Sized.' The boy looks like he doesn't know whether to laugh or pout at the sandwich-maker's joke.

Filbrick decides not to give his son the time to decide. "He gave us these sandwiches for free," he says in a firm voice, "You should thank Mister Knuckles the next time you see him."

"Yes, Sir." Sherman pulls the first miniature sandwich out of the bag and begins unwrapping it.

"Good," Filbrick says before he begins to unwrap his own, more practically sized sandwich, "Anything happen while I was gone?"

Sherman shrugs. "Mom got in an argument with two nurses. And a doctor. She won, though."

"Those arguments about the cribs?" he asks and then takes the first bite out of his 'lunch.'

The nine-year-old swallows quickly in order to respond. "Yeah." He digs into the bag and retrieves another wrapped square. "She only wanted one, but they brought two, anyway. Don' know why. Mom's jus' using the one they left closes' ta her bed."

The next handful of hours pass in a dull manner that Filbrick can only appreciate after the earlier chaos. Maude manages to bully him into helping her, pulling the tiny newborns from their shared crib and passing them into their mother's arms only to put them back soon after. Sherman falls asleep curled up in one of the chairs, using Filbrick's folded jacket as a pillow. On occasion, the footfalls of nurses and doctors can be heard passing by. Considering how the day had started, it's a surprisingly peaceful Sunday evening. ...If one discounts the intermittent sound of crying infants, anyway.

"You should go home," Maude says shortly after sun has hidden itself beyond the horizon. The last of the day's light will be gone in mere minutes, but the air remains oppressively humid and warm in Glass Shard Beach. "I'm sure someone will be by to say visiting hours are over soon enough."

Filbrick grunts softly in acknowledgement while laying one sleeping twin down next to the other. Had Sherman ever been this small? It seems impossible. Things so little and delicate are too easily broken. "How did I let you talk me into having kids?" he asks and, as an afterthought, adds, "Again."

The mother reaches out to brush her fingers over her youngest's head. Maude looks up with a grin that borders on being mischievous. "You _like_ being a daddy," she assures him, "You just don't want to admit it. Don't worry. I won't tell anyone."

The man snorts. "Liar," he says, though he fails to specify what the lie is.

"Only since ever," Maude agrees breezily, though her smile turns into a frown as she examines her husband's expression, "Fil? You're procrastinatin'. What's wrong?"

"A man can't worry about his wife after she gives birth now?" Filbrick half-grumbles.

"Ha! Now who's the liar?" the woman demands, "You weren't worried after Shermie, and you've had plenty a' time to see for yourself that I'm fine."

"It wasn't a lie," Filbrick mutters, "It was a question."

Maude raises an unimpressed eyebrow. "Still waiting on a real answer here, Cheesesteak."

Filbrick lets the silence reign for a long stretch of seconds before giving in to the inevitable. She'll wring a confession out of him at some point, better to get it over and done with. "We weren't prepared for twins."

"Well...no," Maude admits, her brow furrows and she begins to twist her wedding band around her finger, "It's not like having twins is a bad thing, though. Is it? Jus' one more to love, right?"

Filbrick has spent half the day revising all of his plans, calculating added expenses, making a mental list of items to take to nearby auction houses in order to cover the most immediate of those expenses, and figuring out the future logistics of housing five people in their cramped apartment. Just this first day of having two more children has been exhausting and stressful for the entire family. It promises to be even more work in the future, and especially so through the coming week. _But_ , it should be doable. Not easy, of course, but Filbrick thinks it can be achieved without too many complications cropping up.

He's been quiet for too long. He can tell by the anxious, almost pinched, expression that has taken over his wife's face. "No, it's not a bad thing. Having twins."

Maude nods, looking relieved by his answer. "So, what else? You look like something is still eating at ya."

Filbrick bites back the urge to grimace and tries to keep his face impassive as he wrestles with what he wants to say. He never means to worry or upset his wife, but it seems he's bound to do both before this conversation is through.

"Fil?" Maude prompts when he is again quiet for longer than he should have been. Worried shadows begin to creep back into her eyes.

The father sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. He drops his hand back down to his side and decides that there is no good way to bring up the doubts he still has. Specifically, the one obvious problem involving their two youngest sons that he has been entirely unable to think of a solution to. Well, technically, the problem was just with Stanford, not Stanley.

"The doctor mentioned cutting off Stanford's extra fingers," the man finally admits. He ignores the hitch in Maude's breathing. "Except he said it wouldn't be as simple as it had been with Sherman." Filbrick frowns as he peers down at the sleeping twins. "Said it could leave him crippled. 'Loss of dexterity.' 'Chronic pains.' I'm sure the list went on." Filbrick reaches out and watches as his newborn son instinctively fists a hand around his much larger index finger. Six itty bitty fingers working just like they should and perfectly normal if it weren't for their number.

"Filbrick," Maude says lowly, her voice shaking a bit, "tell me you told that quack he wasn't touching our son."

He shakes his head and gently pries little fingers away so he can cross his arms over his chest. "I told him we aren't interested," he confirms, "The cost is too high."

The mother releases a trembling breath. "Fil, honey, he isn't going to be like Sherman. He isn't going to be like me, or my father, or anyone else for that matter. He's going to be Stanford Filbrick Pines, and there's only ever going to be one of him.

"And he has _fingers_ , Filbrick. Not little bits a' skin and bone and blood vessels, but actual _fingers_. There's nothing wrong with them. They're just as they should be. There's no need to go about mindlessly hacking off working body-parts, is there? His fingers don't need to be fixed, Filbrick. They just make him unique, _special_ ," Maude waits for a moment, but, when her husband remains silent, she goes on to demand, "Promise me you're not going to think less of him because of his hands."

Filbrick huffs. "He's my son," he states, "It's everyone else I'm worried about."

Tension drains from Maude's form and her breathing calms as she relaxes again. She leans back into the pillows piled behind her on the bed. "Bah!" she dismisses, concerns already banished from her mind, "What do they matter?"

The man sighs and changes the subject, "I promised Sherman we'd get ice cream when we went home today." Both parents glance over at the child fast asleep and snoring softly in an uncomfortable chair. "He earned it, but I doubt he could stay awake long enough to eat it."

Maude grins widely. "That's an easy enough problem to fix. Just stop for ice cream on your way back here tomorrow. I'll take a sundae with extra everything, by the way."

Filbrick allows his face to twist into a grimace. "You realize you're supposed to be able to taste the ice cream in the sundae, don't you?"

Maude's smile doesn't waver in the slightest. "If you can still see ice cream past the toppings, tell them to add more. Now then, you've got a nine-year-old that needs to be tucked into his bed. Get going, Cheesesteak!"

Filbrick grumbles but moves to obey his wife's wishes.


	6. Not Too Creative

Filbrick hefts the sleeping nine-year-old he's carrying a little higher while simultaneously trying to unlock the pawnshop's back door. He recalls this particular maneuver being significantly easier in the past. Of course, the last time he'd had to do so was roughly five years ago and Sherman had been a lot smaller back then.

"Finally," the father mutters lowly upon hearing the lock click undone. Filbrick Pines opens, closes, and relocks the door behind him with a simple twist now that he is on the correct side of the threshold. Carefully picking his way through the crowded backroom, Filbrick pays extra attention to his son's dangling feet so as to avoid knocking over anything fragile. With the way his day has gone, Filbrick won't be surprised if he manages to shatter something expensive while trying to get Sherman up to the apartment.

It is, perhaps, more of a relief than it should be to reach the other side of the room and the beginning of the staircase leading up to the second floor without breaking anything. The stairs creak loudly underfoot as he ascends, and the noise causes the boy in his arms to stir. "Dad?"

"We're home," Filbrick states as he reaches the top and makes his way toward the bedrooms, "Go back to sleep."

Sherman yawns. "Do I ge'a be'time story tanight?" the child asks, his words slurred as he struggles to stay awake.

"Your mother is better at those," Filbrick dismisses.

"Please?"

The man sighs and relents. "Once there was a little boy who was very tired." Filbrick enters his son's room and sets the child down on the bed. "He went to sleep when his father told him to and was up in time for school the following morning." Filbrick removes small shoes from equally small feet and sets them neatly under the edge of the bed so that they can't be tripped over. "I need my jacket back now, Son."

Sherman fumbles out of overly large sleeves and allows his father to reclaim the missing piece of his suit. He frowns vaguely when he realizes his father has failed to continue the bedtime story. "Tha's it?" he asks around another yawn.

"That's it," Filbrick confirms while folding his jacket over his arm. Honestly, he's surprised Sherman is awake enough to question anything at the moment.

The boy fights to keep his eyes open, but he quickly loses the battle. "S'pose ta say 'the end' when story's done," he mumbles.

"The end," Filbrick states without any of the fanfare or showmanship his wife is inclined to use when spinning tales. Thankfully, it isn't something that matters tonight. Sherman has already fallen asleep again and doesn't hear his father's finishing words at all.

Satisfied that his son is resting peacefully in his bed, Filbrick pulls the blanket up to his son's chest and leaves for his own bedroom directly across the hall.

The man pulls off his shoes and socks on autopilot. He also sheds his tie, shirt, and slacks without a second thought, tossing the articles of clothing into the hamper to await washing along with the aforementioned jacket and socks. His belt gets looped around the hanging bar of the closet. Wristwatch and sunglasses are both set on the nightstand.

Left in naught but an undershirt and his boxers, Filbrick debates the merits of taking a shower before bed. Normally, he showers in the mornings; but, seeing as he's spent the majority of the day drenched in sweat, an evening shower is likely due. On the other hand, Maude won't be joining him tonight; so there won't be anyone other than himself to disgust with his unwashed state. And he'll need to change the bedsheets before his wife returns, regardless of what he chooses to do.

It's been a long day. Filbrick decides the shower can wait until morning.

The shirt hanging over the bedpost catches his eye. "Nearly forgot about that," the man grumbles as he grabs the collar. Filbrick spreads the shirt over the bed for inspection. It doesn't take long to reach the conclusion that the shirt is unsalvageable. Blood is always difficult to get out of clothing, and by now the stains will be impossible to erase.

Two, very different, smeared handprints mar the light green fabric. One is large and blotchy, covering the left side where Filbrick had wiped his hand in an effort to remove the excess gore. The other is far smaller. Perhaps it doesn't even look like a handprint to someone who doesn't know what they're looking at, thanks to the awkward way his tiny son had fisted the material. But Filbrick knows, and that makes it easy to identify the shape of each of his son's six fingers painted in blood against the pale-colored cotton.

Filbrick sighs and scrubs at his face with his hands. "That's not 'special,' Maude," he says to the empty room, finally allowing the thought to be voiced now that he is alone and certain no angry wives or little ears will hear him, "That's 'different.'" The man rubs small circles against his left temple. It feels like his headache from earlier in the day is coming back. _Wonderful_. "People don't _like_ 'different.' It doesn't matter if it's by a lack or an abundance. One day, he's going to realize that all the whispers and stares are focused on him. And calling him 'special' isn't going to keep him from learning all the other, more unpleasant, words for 'unique' that the rest of the world is going to teach him, either."

Filbrick stares down at the stained cloth for a moment longer before deciding that disposing of it properly is one more thing that can wait until morning. He snatches the ruined shirt from where it's resting and deposits it over the same bedpost it had been hanging from earlier.

Filbrick turns down the bed and proceeds with the rest of his evening routine. It isn't until after he's already slipped on his eyepatch for the night that he realizes it won't be needed until tomorrow morning, as he only wears it around the apartment as a courtesy to Maude and Sherman. It's just as well. He's used to sleeping with it on, and he'd likely forget it when he wakes if he's not already wearing it. An awkward, lackluster breakfast eating cereal while trying to look at anything other than Filbrick's empty left eye-socket isn't something he cares to put his son through.

The man shakes his head and dismisses the useless thoughts. Sherman isn't the only one who needs rest. Tomorrow there will be more than enough to do. For now, however, the next few hours will be best spent sleeping; not stressing over either things that nothing can be done about, or the mountain of things that still need to be done.

 _'Relax, Pines,'_ Filbrick tells himself as he settles into his bed, _'The future and its problems are coming whether you stress over them or not. May as well enjoy the peace while it lasts.'_

* * *

**Dimension 1  
** **Reality is a Hologram  
** **Time is Meaningless**

"Well, well, well, well, well, well, well, well, well, well, well. I'm going to have to keep an _eye_ on your little Six Fingers, Filbrick Pines! He may just be the key to what I have planned! _**Ahahahahahaha!**_ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Shermie insists: "The End!"
> 
> Thank you all for reading! I'm afraid this is where _Two_ wraps up, but I'll likely be posting more for this verse at some point. So, if you enjoyed this story, consider subscribing to my [D-297](http://archiveofourown.org/series/457846) series. I plan for it to be where I have fun tying GF-Canon into knots, just because I can. (What can I say? Cipher's not the only interdimensional being who likes to mess with reality or play with puppets.)
> 
>    
>  ~~Srsly, tho. You just read a fic starring Filbrick Pines. What possessed you to do that?~~


End file.
